


Whisper Broken Words

by lonelywalker



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Exhaustion, M/M, Serial Killers, Sleepwalking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-05
Updated: 2013-05-05
Packaged: 2017-12-10 11:39:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/785650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lonelywalker/pseuds/lonelywalker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A sleepwalking Will is woken up outside Hannibal's house, but dream and reality still seem to be blurred. All he can be certain of now is that Hannibal's something more than a friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whisper Broken Words

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Margaret Berger's "I Feed You My Love", which is a Hannibal song if I ever heard one.

The only reason Will realized anything was wrong was that Hannibal’s hair was a mess.

After he rubbed his eyes and shaded them against the glare of a light that, in this darkness, seemed brighter than the sun, it became clear that the current situation was anything but normal. Hannibal was wearing pajamas, for one thing, and for another… Will looked down curiously at the sharp, uneven gravel digging into his bare feet. It took a moment for the actual pain to kick in.

“Will? Do you remember where you are?”

As he stepped onto the paving stones of the driveway, wiping stones from his feet, he knew precisely where he was. He just didn’t _remember_ where he was. “Why am I here?” Surely he hadn’t sleepwalked all the way to Hannibal’s house?

Hannibal took a firm grip of his upper arm. “Come inside. You’re freezing and the neighbors may start to object.”

His memories started to become clearer once his feet were on Hannibal’s plush carpets and he sank down into one of the overstuffed armchairs. The Chesapeake Ripper case had been deepening and broadening lately, dominating his waking hours, taking him away from his classes and the other murders for which Jack had wanted his assistance. That would have been bad enough, but the case had also been tearing into his sleep. He’d been walking around like a zombie for a week before Alana and Hannibal had both told him enough was enough.

So for three days now – at least, he thought it was three days – he’d been staying in Hannibal’s guest room, where at the very least they could all be sure he’d shower and eat and keep something like regular hours. After the Abigail situation, Alana had been reluctant to agree to it, but as she couldn’t host him herself, but as Hannibal had promised not to give him anything beyond three square meals a day, they’d all resigned themselves to the arrangement. 

And it had been working. Will’s head had been clearer, he’d felt better, and he’d been able to come at the Ripper case afresh. Perhaps that was the reason he’d been dragged back into the dreams tonight and back out of his bed, into Hannibal’s driveway, headed who knew where?

As he sat and picked gravel from his dirty feet, he couldn’t help thinking that among the nightmares, among the exhaustion and terror of those hours of half-sleep, he’d almost grabbed onto something, he’d almost got it, the answer barely out of reach. But didn’t everyone feel that way in dreams? Only to realize, as the dream faded, that what had seemed like the blinding truth was in reality absolutely false, even laughable.

Will twisted around. “Hannibal?”

“One moment.”

He was in the kitchen, his hair flattened down into something more respectable, still in his silk, paisley-pattern pajamas. Will felt like a Victorian pauper by comparison. He could smell chocolate in the air. He frowned. “Are you making me cocoa?”

“It seems apt.”

Usually Will adamantly resisted his friends’ efforts to treat him like a child who needed to be coddled and protected from himself. He was almost forty, for God’s sake, a highly-educated and accomplished adult… Who still took the hot mug gratefully from Hannibal’s hand and almost burned his tongue on the first sip.

“I believe this is where I say, ‘Do you want to talk?’” Hannibal sat on the end of the couch closest to Will, cradling his own mug.

“Do you mind if I don’t?”

He always loved it when he managed to get Hannibal to smile, even if now his enjoyment was numbed by fatigue. “Professionally, I care very much when one of my patients starts wandering around while asleep.”

“But I’m not your patient.”

“Mm, personally I also prefer that my friends generally avoid walking into oncoming traffic. Besides, I believe you would understand my reluctance to explain such an occurrence to Jack.”

Will nodded. The cocoa was becoming almost cool enough to drink. “I believe I would.” He drew a hand over his eyes. As he’d anticipated, the dream was becoming hazy, the real world of his drink and the chair under him and Hannibal right there becoming undeniable. “Sorry I woke you.”

“I heard the door… I expected a burglar, not someone actually trying to get _out_ of the house.”

“And you raced to confront a burglar?” It was the kind of thing the Bureau discouraged, even for their well-armed, well-trained agents. “Hannibal, you’re a psychiatrist, not a cop.”

Hannibal shrugged. “Instinct, I assume. And you’d be surprised how much action your average psychiatrist sees, particularly regarding patients with a history of violence... In any case, I’m very glad I came to see what was happening instead of cowering in my room. Perhaps I should take better care to lock the door in future.”

“I’m not sure I should stay here any more. I’ve disrupted your life long enough, and my dogs probably miss me.”

“Your dogs aren’t going to prevent you from sleepwalking, or wake you up if you do.” Hannibal set down his mug. “You’re not disrupting my life. It’s been a pleasure to have you here. Our discussions have been most interesting, and it’s never truly satisfying to cook for oneself.”

Will scratched his head. He’d been sweating in his sleep. He had to stink. Hannibal would be wise to turn a hose on him. “But there must be other friends you’d like to see. I mean, don’t you have some boyfriend somewhere who’s mindblowingly jealous that you have me staying over all the time?” He looked up, caught Hannibal’s expression. “Uh, or a girlfriend. Some sort of... friend.”

He was relieved when Hannibal smiled again. Plenty of people more sophisticated than Hannibal would take offense at such a statement. “No jealous parties of any kind, I’m afraid. Neither the medical profession nor law enforcement is particularly conducive to forming relationships. Besides, most of the people I meet daily are those I’m ethically forbidden to date. But it is nice to know you take enough of an interest to profile me, Will.”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t make assumptions.”

“Why not, if most of those assumptions are true?” Hannibal clasped his hands between his knees. “The last partner I had… Well, it was some time ago, and I very much doubt he’s experiencing any jealousy at present.”

Will breathed out. He felt he should make a confession of his own in exchange, but surely he’d already exposed enough of his soul tonight. “I… should probably get back to bed.”

“Probably, yes.”

Will got to his feet, took Hannibal’s mug as well as his own, and went to the kitchen to wash up. By the time he looked in to say goodnight for the second time, Hannibal was still sitting there, head bowed, his eyes shadowed in the half-light. 

After three nights living together, Will had barely spared a thought for his host’s feelings or personal life before now. And now who knew what thoughts were going through his head? Hannibal was usually so inscrutable, so outwardly confident… But a psychiatrist had to be like that from nine till five. He had to seem as if he had all the answers. Will padded over on bare feet. “Hannibal?”

His palm was against Hannibal’s jaw before he could think about it – good sense still mixed up with dream logic – and when Hannibal looked up, understandably confused, Will kissed him.

There was something in Hannibal’s eyes other than the concern and mystification Will expected, but he wasn’t shoving Will away, wasn’t calmly suggesting that Will go back to bed and they discuss this in the morning. “Is this what you want?” Hannibal asked, and that look resolved itself into something Will did recognize after all – desire.

Was it what he wanted? He _felt_ like he wanted it, his heart racing, his groin already warm, cock stirring with interest for the first time in months. “I… I haven’t,” he said, hoping Hannibal could understand him without the words he couldn’t say. “Not for a long time.”

“Will, Will…” Hannibal said, taking a fistful of his t-shirt and pulling him onto the couch. Will leaned into him, a knee on either side of Hannibal’s silken thighs, preoccupied for the first time with how his name might be used to express both resolve and intent. 

How long had Hannibal wanted this? Wanted him? And how long had he wanted Hannibal? Before tonight? But for now, at least, his mouth was all Will wanted to think about, just a hint of chocolate before the real taste of him, the warm flesh and blood of his lips and tongue and cheeks. Will tore at the buttons of his shirt, desperately wanting to feel him, to be inside Hannibal, to have Hannibal inside him. Did he even know how to relate to another person these days _without_ needing to be in their head? But Hannibal was in his head already, had practically made it his own. Now only the physical need remained.

He pushed Hannibal’s shirt off his shoulders, and Hannibal scooped off his t-shirt, and things were real now, as if a straight man would have sat on someone else’s lap, kissing him, tasting his tongue... But God, Hannibal had skin, nipples, hair, was not actually an unfeeling marble statue. Will smoothed his hand over the bulge in Hannibal’s pajama pants and Hannibal groaned. “Will, I think…”

It had been years, years, since he’d felt another man like this, tugged his pants past his hips and stroked him, felt him hard and full. What had made Hannibal any different from the dozens of men he interacted with on any given day? Not that Hannibal wasn’t attractive – he could be devastating when his smiles reached his eyes – but there had to be something more.

“Bed would be a better location,” Hannibal said.

“No.” He was already thinking about having Hannibal just like this, about looking into his eyes as Hannibal fucked him.

Will backed off and headed for wherever the most likely place was, the bathroom or… He ducked into Hannibal’s bedroom, took in the comforter thrown aside, and pulled open the drawer of the table by the bed. Tissues, condoms, lubricant, and… A pretty wicked-looking hunting knife. Many people had some kind of weapon or makeshift weapon in their bedroom, a gun or baseball bat or something in between, but this sort of thing was just going to get Hannibal killed. Interesting he hadn’t grabbed it tonight, though, if he’d thought Will was a burglar. Will might have to mention it tomorrow, when his too-stiff cock wasn’t overriding all his other concerns.

Hannibal was waiting for him on the couch, fully naked now, paler even than Will except for the flush of arousal and the darkness of his cock against his hand. Will had never enjoyed giving blow jobs, no matter how much he knew how good they felt to receive, but now there was nothing he wanted more than Hannibal in his mouth.

He grasped Hannibal’s hips and sank to the carpeted floor, taking Hannibal between his lips to the sound of a contented sigh. Could you really be closer to another person than to taste them? To lick pre-come from his penis, to swallow him down? Will worried for a second about remembering how to do this, remembering how to make Hannibal feel good, but Hannibal was already raising his hips, setting the rhythm, fucking Will’s mouth more than Will was sucking him. A strong hand set itself firmly on his head, keeping him there. 

“Will,” Hannibal said, his voice steadier than any part of Will felt. “I’m only going to stop if you tell me.”

Will nodded as best he could and closed his eyes. God, the _taste_ of him, bitter copper and the heat of blood and the salt of semen just budding… The only way he could be closer would be… He blinked, tightening his grip on his own cock, right at the base. What had he been thinking of? The fringes of a dream again, the thoughts of a killer who consumed his victims, literally consumed them. With his other hand against Hannibal’s hip, he pushed away hard, and Hannibal let him go.

He was gasping on his knees, disoriented, as confused as he’d been when Hannibal had woken him in the driveway. But there was Hannibal, naked, as aroused as he still felt, and he was some little piece of reality in the heart of the night.

“Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea,” Hannibal was saying when Will stood up and slid back onto his lap.

Will kissed him again, reached back onto the table for the lubricant. “It is. I need…” What did he need? Hannibal? To grasp onto the idea he’d stumbled upon in his dream, or to push it permanently out of reach? Did he want to wake up completely, or fall back into an even deeper sleep? At this time of night, nothing was clear. “I need you inside me. Please.”

Fortunately Hannibal’s ethics weren’t entirely infallible, or perhaps his physical needs were overriding them as much as Will’s body had control of his mind. He stroked Will’s cock as Will prepared himself too quickly and too roughly. Now Will had no patience at all.

Will had never been stabbed or shot, never even probed much by doctors, but he imagined it must be something similar: that foreign object inside the body, the rush of endorphins to compensate for the pain. Was Hannibal a hunter? He’d never mentioned it, but he loved preparing fresh meat in his kitchen, and it would explain the knife. Had he gutted almost-living things, sunk his hands into still-hot entrails, life draining from a still-beating heart? 

He leaned back a little and Hannibal pushed into him harder, deeper than he expected. “Oh fuck…” 

“Hm? You like that?” Hannibal’s hand was wrapped around his cock, not enough to make him come, just enough to make him feel good for now.

“Yes… Christ, Hannibal.”

He had to wonder whether a psychiatrist might just be interested in the physical aspect of his occupation too – not just neuropsychology, but the idea of entering the body as well as the mind, knowing it, understanding it, guiding its path. Did Hannibal look into his eyes and see the pain alongside the pleasure? Did he look into the eyes of a dying deer the same way, blood smeared over his hands?

There was something… There was something there, if he could just focus on anything but the way Hannibal’s hips were moving under him, the way Hannibal was moving through him.

“Just so you know, Will,” Hannibal said. “I’m only going to stop if you tell me to.”

Good, good… Will was whimpering, moaning as Hannibal caressed his chest, hard nipples, tight balls. He’d die if Hannibal stopped. Still, he just needed a moment, a second to breathe and remember... He’d been working on this profile for so long, so many weeks, the facts mounting up alongside the guesses: a white male, probably bisexual or sexually ambivalent, with medical training, an obsession with consuming his prey, so… a hunter, a butcher, a chef…

Now his dream was all too clear.

How many killers had he met in his life? Several behind bars, a couple in the field. None who had looked after him and kissed him and had sex with him on a couch. None he thought it was just possible he might love, even if that feeling was entirely the result of Hannibal’s cock stroking over his prostate, the pressure on nerve endings, Hannibal’s hand working him faster...

Will opened his eyes and Hannibal kissed him.

Could it be possible? Of course it was possible. It wasn’t only possible, it was true. That head, that faceless mind Will had been trying to see for weeks was now right in front of him, masked by sharp cheekbones and deep brown eyes and an intellect that had deflected any suspicion at all but the most niggling, insistent thought that could only become a revelation as he slept.

“It’s you,” Will said softly, his breath gone, and with it any terror he could muster. Even though Hannibal had no knife, he had his hands, hands he’d probably been confident would deal with any burglar. He could die here, right here, being fucked by his friend. 

Hannibal caught his gaze, and the amused lack of comprehension Will had hoped for just wasn’t there. “It’s me,” he agreed. “Relax, Will. It’s so much better if you relax.”

He could wrestle himself free, run to the door, get outside and start yelling. Someone would hear. Hannibal couldn’t gut him in the street. But with every moment that passed, he was very much _not_ doing that, just as much as Hannibal wasn’t snapping his neck or strangling the life out of him. Instead, the Chesapeake Ripper, murderer of innocent men and women, who cut out their organs and probably lightly sautéed them in a Chardonnay, was still fucking him, even _making love_ to him. God knew what was going to happen when he came, if he lived that long.

“Hannibal…” His voice was weak, strained. Hot tears were running down his cheeks. He hadn’t cried since college, and even then it’d been due to some fairly extreme pain. Begging for his life wouldn’t work, he’d lived in Hannibal’s mind long enough to understand that would only breed contempt. He’d be reduced to nothing but an animal, acting on instinct, wanting nothing more than to live. But wasn’t he just an animal now, his body craving orgasm, illusory chances at reproduction more important than his own life?

Hannibal wiped the tears away with gentle fingertips. “Shh, just let it happen. You’ll feel so much better.”

Didn’t he know? Of course he knew. He’d been living in Will’s head just as much as Will had been living in his. And yet… And yet…

He could _feel_ it, the climax building inside him, almost inevitable now, even if he tore away. He could feel Hannibal too, moving under him, his breaths short. Could he really get off on sex alone? Sex and death. The little death, the French called it, always a joke until now. “Oh fuck, _please_ Hannibal.” If he said it, if he said “stop”, would Hannibal stop himself? Would it just bring on whatever horrors awaited him even sooner?

But, God, it was too late anyway, too late for anything but coming, a soaring climax that shook the breath from him and went on longer than he’d ever experienced before, so long that his head was ringing, body begging for oxygen by the time he came down.

Will didn’t want to open his eyes, possibly couldn’t the way his body was barely under his control, flickers of silver across his vision even under his eyelids. But Hannibal was still moving under him and Will could hear how close he was, urgent breaths, muttered words in a language Will couldn’t quite identify. The instant Will opened his eyes, Hannibal was coming, hips jolting up against him.

“Oh God, _Will_ ,” Hannibal said in a gasp and Will could feel, thought he felt, the heat of Hannibal’s come inside him. Jesus Christ, he was still pulsing with his own aftershocks. 

And here they both were, still alive, still breathing, Hannibal tugging him into an urgent post-coital hug. “Did I hurt you?” he asked by Will’s ear.

Could he be wrong? He wasn’t wrong. The profile fit, it fit perfectly, more than perfectly. But you couldn’t convict a man based on a profile. He could tell Jack his suspicions, get the Bureau to investigate things quietly, try to match Hannibal’s movements and financial transactions with the various murders. But Hannibal was smart, smarter than all of them, maybe even smart enough to start a love affair with the one person who had a chance of figuring it out...

“How old were you when you first killed someone?” Will asked. He was trying for a calm, level, imposing tone. He perhaps achieved one of the three.

Hannibal swept back sweat-coated hair from his face with a hint of a smile. “Will, I think you need to get some sleep. Truly.”

He got to his feet, feeling horribly exposed, Hannibal’s come sticky on his thighs. “Tell me.”

“I’ve never done anything worse than almost cut off my own hand with a cleaver,” Hannibal held up the back of his wrist for examination. “You can still see the scar, just about. Will, you’re tired. Exhausted, even. This will all seem a lot clearer in the morning, when hopefully you won’t be seeing killers around every corner.”

That seemed temptingly plausible, a lie he could tell himself. He was tired, had a history of getting far too deep into cases. It was the entire reason he had met Hannibal Lecter in the first place. He could argue himself out of his own convictions if he wanted to: the profile could equally apply to dozens of people in the state. Hannibal had been checked out by the Bureau. He worked with some of the best profilers in the business. Will had lived with him for three days and never found anything that was even remotely suspicious, at least to his conscious mind. And Hannibal hadn’t done anything worse to him than give him what was probably the most intense orgasm of his life. Which wasn’t, as far as he knew, against any laws in the state of Maryland.

Hannibal got up, stretching lazily, picking their clothes up from the floor. “I’d be happy if you came to bed with me. Rest assured the knife you probably saw was a gift I’ve barely used, but the guest room locks from the inside and, whatever else you think about me, I’m unlikely to murder a houseguest when half the FBI knows you’re staying here.

“I’m sorry if you didn’t enjoy tonight, Will. I know you’re tired and possibly I took advantage, and for that I apologize. I hope tomorrow we can resume our... friendship.”

And then he was gone, the sound of his bedroom door swinging closed. Will was left with the front door, with the phone… and a series of convictions that seemed shakier by the second. Not only could Hannibal explain away everything, Will _wanted_ him to. He wanted Hannibal to be a friend and a colleague and perhaps more. He had too few things to rely on in the world, and for the last few months Hannibal had been one of them. Perhaps he’d unearthed the Chesapeake Ripper, but in this hazy early morning fog, it was more likely he’d insulted a dear friend.

In the kitchen, he poured himself a glass of ice-cold water, eying the meat in the fridge. It all looked like anything he might find in Jack’s kitchen, or his own. Some of it was even labeled with barcodes from the store. He could call over Beverly’s forensics team and get them to run a DNA analysis… but honestly, running any kind of analysis on the contents of a consultant’s fridge even sounded crazy and paranoid to his own mind. 

The lights were out in Hannibal’s room, but he managed to feel his way to the bed based on the layout he’d seen before and edge under the covers until a warm body embraced him. “My dear Will,” Hannibal said, kissing his neck. “I must say you smell absolutely vile.”

Will breathed in and closed his eyes. Whether or not he would ever wake up, all he wanted to do was sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Hannibal Kink Meme](http://hannibalkink.dreamwidth.org/1375.html) and this prompt: The moment Will realises Hannibal is the Ripper occurs actually during sex. They keep going.


End file.
